The coldest day since 1836
and kangaroos are on the move.
They dodge cars on the frozen highway
between Jindabyne and Queanbeyan,
vast mobs passing silently at speed,
tripod tails sweeping snow,
padded feet mute.
These are kangaroos on steroids,
grown to twice their normal size
after a season gorging on pasture and vineyard
and now itís time.
They are gathering in the foothills
under killing trees,
meeting their brothers,
dead by bullets,
barely holding together.
Thousands of kangaroos
on hind houghs
staring into snowbound farmhouses
flakes falling thick on their backs,
muzzles frosted, stomachs groaning,
revenge in their hearts.
If you have any comments on this poem, Jane Frank would be
pleased to hear from you.